


A Study In (Love)Sickness

by convolutedConcussion



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek Might Be Secretly In Love With This Dumb Kid, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mucus Isn't Sexy Stiles, Pneumonia, Sickness, Stiles Is A Dumb Kid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-19
Updated: 2012-09-20
Packaged: 2017-11-14 15:08:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/516668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/convolutedConcussion/pseuds/convolutedConcussion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Dude, really, stop staring at me.  Scott was my ride and <i>he will leave me</i> because only like forty percent of his brain actually functions the way it should and I love the guy but he will leave me if he even <i>thinks</i> he might miss his and Allison’s clandestine little date thing and—” he coughs again and it effectively cuts off his own diatribe.</p><p>“You’re sick,” Derek says.</p><p>Stiles throws his arms up in the air with something that can only be described as a full-body jerk and sputters, “Yeah—well—thanks, it’s called a cold.  I’m <i>leaving</i> now.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shut Up, It's Just A Cold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Susangel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Susangel/gifts).



It starts because he stinks of sickness.  And because of some small measure of guilt.  But it starts because Stiles is with Scott when Scott comes to talk to him about the kanima and who it’s supposed to be—and Derek’s not sure if Stiles is supposed to be the muscle in this situation, Scott’s back-up (both of which were laughable), or just a hand to hold because Scott’s still scared of him.  He tries, he really does, to keep his mind on Scott and the flood of nonsense coming out of his face—something to the effect of how Derek’s approach is questionable—but he’s very aware of Stiles, sitting stiffly between Isaac and Erica, trying and failing to make conversation, and, every so often, coughing dryly into his fist.  So later, when they’re leaving, Derek follows them, hooking two fingers into the collar of Stiles’ T-shirt and jerking back.

“Wh— _Oh_ , hey, D-Derek,” the teen gasps, going very still until he lets him go and then whirling around.  _“What?_ ” he demands, straightening his shirt dramatically.

Fuckin’ kid.

“Dude, really, stop staring at me.  Scott was my ride and he _will leave me_ because only like forty percent of his brain actually functions the way it should and I love the guy but he will leave me if he even _thinks_ he might miss his and Allison’s clandestine little date thing and—” he coughs again and it effectively cuts off his own diatribe.

“You’re sick,” Derek says.

Stiles throws his arms up in the air with something that can only be described as a full-body jerk and sputters, “Yeah—well—thanks, it’s called a cold.  I’m _leaving_ now.”

\---

There’s an elephant on his chest and he’s more exhausted when he wakes up than when he went to bed.  He croaks for his father before he realizes the sheriff’s at work and just rolls over onto his side to see if that helps him hack up whatever’s inside his chest.  There’s someone standing by his window and he gasps so hard he’s pretty sure that he pops one lung and then he’s fairly certain the resulting coughing fit destroys the other.  “Not—cool,” he rasps, clutching his chest.

Derek’s making this weird, almost-glowering-and-almost-sad face in his general direction.  “I… I came to check on you,” he grumbles.  It was like speaking was causing him physical pain.

Stiles sits up dizzily.  His head starts pounding immediately and he groans.  “I’m great—so great,” he murmurs.  Oh, speaking does cause _him_ physical pain.  Derek’s still staring at him and he manages a glare.  “Is there something I can help you with?” he demands roughly.  When, after a couple of agonizing minutes, he doesn’t get an answer, he rolls his eyes—an effort that earns him a violent, pulling ache in the front of his brain—and heaves himself to his feet.

The edges of his vision go fuzzy and black and he’s pretty sure he takes a hard step forward because his foot drops heavily but then he’s sagging against a solid wall of flesh and muscle and he swallows a quick freak-out because _did he just almost faint on Derek Hale?_   When he chances a look up, the guy’s looking at him like he looks at the tripe his aunt Judy tried to make him eat the last time she visited with the twins and that’s all very interesting but then he can’t think of anything because his feet are knocked out from under him and he’s _warm_ and it takes him entirely too long to notice that it’s because Derek is holding him bridal-style and then it takes him another really-long-time to start twitching and freaking out and by then the werewolf is shouldering his way out of the room.  “Shut up, Stiles,” he growls and wow it vibrates in Derek’s chest and right against Stiles’ side.

\---

Stiles’ chest makes a strange, guttural noise when he breathes and when Derek touches his skin it’s clammy.  “Are you done touching my face?” he whispers, lips twitching.  Derek pays him back by flicking his forehead and flashing his fangs.  “O-okay, touch away, keep on with the awkward facial-gropage, _looming_ over me and staring because none of this is freaky at all.”

Sighing and straightening, Derek scowls down at him and asks, “Do you have cold medicine or something?”  Stiles yawns and scrubs at his eyes and directs him to the upstairs bathroom and scrunches his nose up at him but he walks away before the kid can say anything about how gross the stuff is.  He comes back down with the green stuff, a pillow, and Stiles’ comforter.

\---

It’s day four on Coldwatch—Derek Being A Weird Creeper edition—and it’s the second day of school that he’s missed when Stiles asks him to help him make chicken soup.  His mom had had this great recipe that always made him feel better when he was a kid.  He’s found himself almost glad to have Derek around—even if he is stoic and weird and doesn’t talk ever, it’s cool to have someone around.  By now, his congestion has gotten bad enough that he hasn’t been able to ramble as he usually does without breaking into violent coughing fits.  It’s not a dry cough anymore; the wastebasket he’s been keeping next to the couch is filled to the brim with tissues wrapped around thick chunks of bright mucus and it’s _gross_.  He’s also _exhausted_ all the freakin’ time now, so he leans against the counter while the chicken boils.

“Why are you here?” he huffs suddenly, looking up at Derek and trying not to break eye contact in spite of a splitting headache.

Uncomfortable— _uncomfortable_ , hah!—the Alpha shrugs.  He looks at Stiles meaningfully like he’s just supposed to _get it_ but when no _ah_ of comprehension escapes him, he grunts/sighs (really, it’s suddenly very hard to tell the difference between Derek’s expressions) and explains, “You’re sick.”

_“Yeah_ , so we’ve established.”

“You’re sick because you were keeping me alive,” the werewolf says quickly, not looking at him.  Stiles doesn’t _awh_ but it’s a close thing.  “And you’re… alone, and what if something happens to you?  Scott would be killed by the Argents in a week without you.”  Mouth falling open, the teen stares for a good long time.  _“What?”_

Ducking his head, Stiles hides a smile and shakes his head.  He has to suppress a cough but then manages, “Nothing, that’s… just the closest thing I’ve heard to a _thank you_ that I’ve heard since I saved your werewolf ass.”  He laughs and that laugh turns into painful hacking and he turns away from the counter because _gross_ and he finds himself doubling over and it _hurts_ and it won’t stop and he starts to feel panic edging in but then there’s a hand splayed out on the center of his chest and another rubbing his back.  (Something weird happens just then, like it eases up and the pain fades suddenly and it’s such a relief that he slumps sideways into Derek’s chest.  He looks down and he sees the other’s wrist—his whole arm—the veins swelling and darkening and it makes his heart hammer because he doesn’t understand.) 

“Breathe, Stiles,” breezes over his ear and he gasps and that hurts but he doesn’t cough until Derek’s hand leaves his chest.  “Couch.  Now.”  His jaw is tight.  He looks almost angry.

It doesn’t happen often, but Stiles does what he’s told.  Usually, he’d be embarrassed (or distracted… really distracted) by the arm around his shoulders but he can’t really bring himself to be anything but grateful just then.  “Whadid you do?” he asks weakly from the couch as he shifts onto his side on the couch and watches Derek rub his wrist.

“I eased some of your pain.  Go to sleep, I can read a recipe,” the other commands.  Stiles snorts something about it being doubtful but his eyes slide shut.

\---

Thing is, Derek _can_ read a recipe.  He’s just not very good at it.  But he tries really hard for this one because this recipe book tells him a story.  It’s new—the writing on the pages isn’t faded away from generations of use—and he’s almost positive that (even if Stiles didn’t say so and he didn’t ask) it had been written by his mother because half the recipes are for things like “Stiles’ Favorite Mac N Cheese” and “Mama’s Homemade Pizza Crust” and the one he’s reading now is called “Sick’n’Chick’n Soup” and now that Stiles isn’t watching him he allows himself a smile because it’s kind of cute.  But the whole book still reeks of hospital—of medicine and sterilizing cleaner, of sickness and salt.  These smells cling to the pages.  He’s willing to bet that it hadn’t been cracked open until very recently.  He tries to think—to remember when Mrs. Stilinski passed.  Beacon Hills isn’t exactly a big place; he knew their parents had met before.  He remembers he was young—thirteen or fourteen—and that he hadn’t gone to the funeral.  So maybe the sheriff didn’t consult the book so often as his wife had intended but it’s a safe bet, from the smell of Stiles clinging to it, that as he grew old enough to _try_ , the kid started using them to make meals.  (And it sounds exactly like the kid to do something like that, like trying to take care of his dad, like trying to help his best friend when he becomes a werewolf instead of running as far as possible in the other direction—and, his mind whispers traitorously, jumping in after a guy who routinely threatens his life and holding his head above water for more than two hours.)  The writing, as the book progresses, goes from flawlessly flowing script to shaky, weak.  The pen wasn’t pressed down as hard, especially there at the end, and some bits are a little smudged, as if a sleeve was accidentally passed over them.

The story this book tells him is of a boy whose mother loved him enough to make sure that all his favorite food could be made.  That she wrote a recipe book as she faded away.  So he’s got to try to follow this one recipe.  He does everything exactly as it says—and it’s oddly precise—right down to the ice cube in the bowl he brings to the boy sleeping on the couch.  He sets up a TV tray for Stiles right in front of the couch and a mug of tea that his own mother had made the human kids in the family when they got sick—ginger root sliced and boiled with a thick piece of lemon and sweetened with a little honey—before waking him.  “Get up, moron, you’ve got to eat,” he commands gruffly.  Stiles starts coughing, whole body curling on itself, and he unthinkingly grabs a Kleenex to press to his mouth.  “Spit,” he grumbles.  The teen looks almost scared so he growls, “Just _do_ it.”

After he’s sitting up and letting Derek wrap the comforter around his shoulders (and the werewolf might deserve his derision because he’s taking care to jostle him a little more than necessary), he snorts, “Your bedside manner _sucks._ ”

“Shut up and eat or I will force it all down your throat.”

“Kinky,” Stiles wheezes, slumping.  “I’m not hungry.”

Derek rolls his eyes.  “I don’t _care_.  You haven’t eaten since yesterday and you only ate half the oatmeal then.”

The kid stares at him and he’s doing that gaping thing.  “Why do you _know_ that?”

He just taps his nose and stares him down until Stiles brings the spoon to his lips.  He sits next to the teen and changes the TV channel because he is _not_ watching Maury.  It’s possible that it’ll just make Stiles sicker.  He keeps half his attention on the other’s breathing—the way it comes in shorter than normal, the way it rattles in his chest—and his heart rate, which sounds elevated.  Then he’s staring at him—all for the sake of examination—the way his lips are cracked and how his nose is red and raw, how his hands shake, the dark bags under his eyes.  “You need to see a doctor,” he hears himself say.

\---

“It’s just a cold,” Stiles grumbles back.  “You did a really good job on this.”  He barely flinches when Derek’s hand presses to his cheek.  “If I give you three dollars, will you go get me a thermometer and stop touching me?” he demands, not looking at him.  (‘Cause he knows he doesn’t want him to stop touching him and that’s seriously a problem.  Like he’s fairly comfortable with being attracted to the occasional buff dude but it hardly seems fair now because he’s got this stupidly attractive werewolf all touching his face and he’s only here because Stiles saved his stupid life and it’s really just annoying him right now.)

“Shut up, you’ve got a fever.”

“Shut up, I’ve got a cold.  It happens.”

After a while, when Stiles can’t bring himself to eat anymore soup or sip anymore tea, he slouches forward, huffing and puffing, and watches the TV as Derek impatiently flicks through the channels.  “Wait!  Wait, Jurassic Park, dude!”  He hears the other guy snort but he counts it as a victory when he sets the remote on the side table.  When the werewolf stands and starts clearing away his lunch, Stiles’ hand darts out of its own accord—really, he would never tell it to do that, his balls would never be that big—and snag the pocket of Derek’s jacket.  “Wait, you have to stay.”

“What?”

“Don’t be so obtuse, grumpy fangs, I want you to stay and watch the movie with me,” he mumbles, _duh_ implied.

\---

Derek stares at him for a long time before taking everything into the kitchen.  He hears Stiles slump heavily back into the couch and—reluctantly—heads back in to drop himself next to the teen.  He looks over to see Stiles grinning at the screen.  His silence doesn’t last long, soon he’s whispering trivia about the movie, like how they got the glass of water on the dash to ripple and stupid shit about the T-rex and who was offered what part and how many people were considered for the director.  He talks through hard coughs and even past the point where his eyes start watering because he can’t catch his breath and that’s when Derek feels completely justified in slapping a hand over the teen’s mouth.  (He does a very impressive job at not looking sickened by the snot that coats his index finger.)

“Shut up,” he deadpans.

Another half-hour finds him fed up with Stiles’ serious lack of self-preservation instincts and he menaces him into taking another dose of NyQuil.  The stupid kid falls asleep mashed against Derek’s arm and he’s drooling and secreting other bodily fluids all over his jacket so he tries to shove the teen off and only really ends up with Stiles drooling and snotting—and he’ll think about whether or not that’s a word at another time—on his thigh while he watches Jurassic Park.  When Stiles’ chest crackles, when he starts coughing, Derek rolls his eyes, but he can feel the kid panic in his sleep, like he’s fighting to wake up, like he’s not gonna take another breath.  He almost plays a game with himself, nails scraping the teen’s scalp, hands rubbing his back and chest.  He pretends he’s actually comforting him, as if he could offer any comfort.  And Stiles snores against his leg.

Stupid kid.


	2. Derek Hale--Notorious Bad Guy--Secret Good Guy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Derek saves Stiles and Stiles offers a suggestion about this habit they have for saving one another.

There’s something really, _really_ wrong and Derek knows it before he’s even in the house.  He bangs in through the door and there he is, hunched over the edge of the couch.  His breath is coming in quick, shallow pants and his heart is fluttering rapidly.  His hand is clawing at his sweaty chest, as if he can dig in far enough to clear up his lungs.  Derek’s in front of him in an instant, grabs his face between his hands, helps him sit up.  “Calm down,” he whispers.  He realizes belatedly that Stiles is actually crying and he unconsciously wipes the tears away.  In the wan morning light, he looks dead.  His eyes are wide and wild but glassy, scared, and his lips are frighteningly blue.  He growls, deep in his chest, and maybe squeezes a little too tightly and presses their foreheads together.  “I _told_ you, dumbass, you should have seen a doctor.”

Swallowing thickly, Stiles manages to breathe out, between sharp breaths, “S-sorry—think—I’m ready—to—make—an appointment—n-now.”

Jokes, he’s making jokes.  Derek gives him one black look and picks him up, blanket and all.  “We’re going to the hospital,” he tells him, almost daring him to argue and he’s surprised when Stiles just nods slowly, chin bobbing on his collarbone.  He shoves the teen into the passenger side of the Jeep and runs back inside to find the keys because it’s easier than trying to get Stiles to his Camaro.  On their way to the hospital, the teen starts shaking and whimpering like a pup and Derek reaches over to card a hand over his scalp before pressing his palm to his sweaty forehead (and he almost crashes because he’s got far too much attention over on that side of the vehicle and not on the road).  “I swear to God if you die in here I am gonna bring you back to life just to kill you again, Stilinski,” the werewolf threatens tightly.  “We’re almost there.”

When they get there, Derek’s not sure how to feel about Mrs. McCall being the only person at the front desk.  She’s on the phone and she looks exhausted and he wonders if she’s on the tail-end of an overnighter but when she looks up she frowns, saying, “Derek, what are you— _Stiles?”_   She doesn’t tell whoever she’s talking to that she’s got to go, just hangs up and rushes over.  “What happened?”

He’s not used to feeling this helpless but under her scrutiny he feels very small.  There’s steel in his voice though when he grinds out, “He’s been sick for days.  Kept saying it was a cold.  I found him like this a few minutes ago.”  He sees something pass over her face, like she wants to ask something, but she seems to think better of it and instead finds someone to tend to Stiles.

\---

“He brought him in a few hours ago,” Melissa tells the Sheriff.  “He hasn’t left that chair since then.”

John looks over at the young man glaring hard at the floor in front of him.  “And he hasn’t said anything to you?” he asks, ever the cop.

Biting her lip, the woman laughs a little and shrugs.  “He told me that Stiles has been sick and that he found him this morning the way he brought him in this morning.  I thought maybe you should ask him about it.”  Which he took to mean, _Derek Hale scares the living shit out of me and I didn’t want to ask him what he’s been doing with the sheriff’s underage son at six in the morning._   “He hasn’t even asked about him.  I have no idea why he’s still here.”

The man sighs and rubs his forehead.  He thanks her and walks over to Derek.  “Do you wanna tell me what’s going on?” he asks evenly.

Derek’s dark eyes drag upward and John’s gaze hardens; something in him rebels ridiculously from showing weakness to this kid.  “Your son’s being treated for pneumonia,” is his answer.  There’s no sign of disrespect, no smirk, no facial expression at all.  His voice is blank, void of feeling.

“Yes, I got that part.  I’m his father—I’m _supposed_ to be here.  What I should have asked is what are _you_ doing here?” he clarifies, growing annoyed.

“I brought him.”  (The sheriff restrains the urge to smack him because _really._ )  Derek still holds his gaze.

Crossing his arms in front of his chest, John waits.  Then, when nothing is volunteered, he asks, “What were you doing at my house at six in the morning?  And, I think just as importantly, why are you still here?”

Before he can get his answer, a doctor calls his attention away to tell him about Stiles’ condition.  When he turns back around to face Derek, the guy’s down the hall, frowning at a vending machine.

\---

When he wakes up, the first word he manages to croak is, “Derek?”  It’s embarrassing when he opens his eyes and sees his dad staring dubiously at him.  “Um, I mean—hey, Dad,” he whispers, shrinking weakly into his pillow.  The sheriff sighs heavily and leans forward in his chair to grab Stiles’ hand—the one not currently home to a (really gross) IV, thank God.  “So,” he pauses to cough.  “That was—really awkward—could we pretend I didn’t say it?”

“He’s in the waiting area,” his dad says.  He sounds irked.  “He wouldn’t leave.”  Wide-eyed, Stiles weighs his options, trying to decide just how much lying he can get away with.  Then, “The doctors say you need rest.  So we can talk about this when you’re better.  But we are going to talk about it.”

Pulling a face, he turns his attention to the thin blanket pulled over him.  It’s itchy between his fingers.  “Whadid… whadid he say happened?” he mumbles, letting his head fall back.  He’s so _tired._   It hardly seems to matter.

“That he found you and brought you in,” replies the older man, eyes narrowing.

\---

Eventually, the sheriff has to leave his son’s bedside.  Only then does Derek dare to go into the room and take a seat next to him.  He had under one arm Stiles’ school books and homework assignments—Scott had brought them but had for some reason refused to give the stuff to his friend himself while his father was there.  (He’d asked Derek what he was doing there but when he didn’t get an answer had just rolled his eyes and stormed off.)  Now, sitting next to the bed, he watches the still too-fast rise and fall of Stiles’ chest.  It occurs to him—as if for the first time—that Stiles is really fragile.  His bones are like twigs.  He’s got fluid in his lungs that’s left him completely or nearly completely incapacitated.  He could _die_ from this.  He could have died.  He’s got to rely on IVs and days—weeks maybe—of rest to heal him. 

“Hey,” the teen croons at him.  Like a dying bird, his bony hand flutters on the bedspread, snatches up Derek’s fingers.  He tries to take a deep breath, winces in pain.  “So, you saved me again.”  Derek looks at their hands, turns his palm-up underneath Stiles’.  (He thinks, _Stupid kid, ridiculous kid, obnoxious, clever, smartass, kid,_ without any heat.)  “We should—” he has to pause to catch his breath.  “We should start keeping track.  You know—save my life nine times and on the tenth time I—make you a steak.”  He swallows and smiles.  His eyes close for a few seconds before he starts mumbling, “And maybe—on the tenth time I save you—you could grace me with a smile—or maybe you can abstain from throwing me into walls—for like a week.”  He gives a shaky little laugh.

“What are you doing?” Derek asks incredulously.

With a trembling hand, Stiles reaches out and pokes the space between the werewolf’s eyebrows.  “Tryna make you stop looking—like someone kicked a puppy—and forced you to watch,” he replies.  “And also thanking you for not—letting me die.”

“Shut up.”

He hums gently.  “What do I tell—my dad about you?” he sniffs.  Derek passes him a tissue box so he can blow his nose.  (It makes him start coughing and he curls onto his side away from the werewolf and the fit isn’t like the ones before because he’s so tired.  When he stops, he’s gasping for breath and grimacing in pain and he sounds like he’s trying not to make noise.)

“I—dunno,” the other admits reluctantly.  “Go to sleep.  You look like shit.”

Again, Stiles hums.  Then, as his eyes slide shut, he licks his lips and hisses between breaths, “If you—happen—to sneak into my house—could you bring—me some clothes?”

\---

The next time he opens his eyes, everything is dark.  He sits up slowly.  His hand is trapped under something and, in the light filtered in through the shades on his room’s windows, he sees someone’s hunched over the side of his bed, face pressed by his thigh.  It’s another hand—warm and rough—that’s weighing his down and he slowly pulls his arm back.  He threads his fingers into thick, soft hair—he knew it’d be soft—absently dragging his nails behind the curve of his ear.  He hears a rumble and the head shifts and he catches a flash of one red eye.  “You don’t—scare me,” he lies.  He pushes Derek’s hair back, cups the solid curve of his skull.

\---

Stiles is sitting up when he comes back the next afternoon, but his head’s still heavy against the pillow.  The TV is on some ridiculously trashy talk show and Scott is stretched out on the other bed.  The other werewolf has some thick textbook open on his lap and he’s busy pouring over it.  Stiles has a tray laden with food extended on a metal arm over his stomach and it doesn’t look like he’s even picked at it.  “Get my text?” he asks, smirking a little.

Derek has both hands full.  In one hand, there’s a big bottle of Gatorade.  In the other, a thick paper bag.  He gets the strongest urge to throw both of them at the teen’s face.  Instead, he takes the empty Styrofoam cup off of the tray in front of the kid and fills it up with the drink, letting the bag sit on the edge of his bed.  Stiles favors him with a bright grin.  Scott’s looking at him like _he’s_ the sick one.  “Why aren’t you eating?”

“This is gross,” he puffs.

Sighing and rolling his eyes, Derek makes a big show of opening the bag and hands Stiles a warm Tupperware.  “You’re seriously disgusting,” Scott tells his best friend.  “Stop drooling.”

“I am seriously this close to telling your mom—what your password and username are,” he growls pathetically.  He looks back up at Derek and frowns, then looks at the chair next to his bed, like he can’t quite understand why he’s not sitting.  As the older man starts sitting, Stiles opens the container to sip tentatively at the soup.  “Do you want—my Jell-O?”

Smirking, he takes the treat and plastic spoon.  Scott sounds outraged when he cries, “Dude, I called dibs!  I am your best bro, I have eternal dibs on your hospital Jell-O.”  Derek snickers.

\---

Derek leaves around the same time Stiles’ dad gets off work.  The teen doesn’t actually feel like telling him that his dad probably won’t visit tonight—that hospitals and the word _pneumonia_ bring back bad memories for them both, give them the creepy-crawlies.  With Scott’s mom’s help, he changes into the clothes that Derek had brought him—he’d even remembered, how thoughtful—and tries to stifle the embarrassment at not being able to dress himself.  (“You sure?  Jeans aren’t exactly comfortable sleepwear,” she’d reminded him.)

He does, however, get an unexpected guest.  Sometime just before visiting hours are over, Allison slips in, smiling tremulously at him.  “How do you feel?” she asks him in undertone.

“Been better,” he wheezes, smiling a little.  “Glad to not be dead.”

“You’re not funny,” she chides.  She takes the seat (Derek’s seat) next to him and looks at him like she’s worried.  “Is it true—what they’re saying?”

Swallowing, Stiles turns his head to hack into a tissue before looking back at her.  “S-sorry to disappoint but I’ve—been a little removed from—the rumor mill here lately,” he mumbles, chest sore and head throbbing.

“Well, they’re saying, like, you know, Derek Hale brought you in and he never leaves your side,” she blurts.

He gives her a snort and gestures around the room because that’s easier than saying, “Hey, look, no Derek Hale hidden here.”  She looks a little embarrassed and he laughs a little.  “He did bring me,” he answers thickly.

He doesn’t know why he sounds sad.

\---

John Stilinski is not a stupid man.  So he doesn’t believe for a second that it was just chance that Derek managed to bring Stiles in just at the right time.  He in no way believes that the guy has been visiting just because he wants to check up on Stiles purely because he _was_ the one to find him.  He also refuses to believe that Scott was who’s been bringing his son clothes to change in to.  But he doesn’t bring it up because he doesn’t want to stress Stiles out.  (It’s terrifying to be back in the hospital—back for this—maybe for a different person but still someone he loves and it makes him feel vaguely sick and if he lost Stiles because he gave the kid a panic attack over someone like Derek Hale…)  He doesn’t even question it when the kid’s huddled in a too-big leather jacket when he comes to take him home.  The drive home seems too long, with his son pale and shaking next to him, with him having nothing of substance to say.  Sometimes Stiles tries to fill the silence, rasping away like he always has—though it’s strange to hear it done so slowly, to hear him have to stop in the middle of a speech to find his breath.

Once he’s got the kid settled on the couch, it’s like he immediately falls asleep, and the sheriff can almost relax.  But then, “He’s not so—bad, you know?”

Cocking a brow, John asks, “What?”

Stiles’ eyes are shut tight.  “Derek Hale.  Notorious bad boy.  Secret good guy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahah JK there's another chapter coming whoops.
> 
> Also I should let y'all know that I basically took this episode and then blatantly ignore the rest of them after Abomination.
> 
> Am I a cool writer yet?


	3. Insubordination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stiles is the king of ruining moods.

“I’m not giving it back,” Stiles tells him gruffly.  His voice is still rough, that first day he’s supposed to go back to school, and he’s still weak and fatigued but he’s tired of not being at school.  (Tired of being in bed, tired of being taken care of, tired of fruitlessly flirting with Derek.  It’s not fair or fun.)  He grins up at the older man and shoves his hands in his pockets.  “It’s warm.”

The werewolf growls something that sounds a lot like, “Little shit.”  He’s giving him this funny look and if Stiles had any common sense he would _really_ consider giving the jacket back but you don’t just climb into someone’s bedroom window and demand the jacket back.  (Or stare at them like they were growing a third arm because you were putting the thing on.)  He sighs, though, and straightens Stiles’ collar.  His voice is soft when he breathes, “Just for the day, though.”

“Careful, there, Hale,” the teenager hears himself saying.  “People are gonna think you like me.”

One corner of Derek’s mouth lifts and he claims, “Nah, no one who’s spent more than a couple minutes with you could think that.”  He drops the keys to the Jeep into Stiles’ outstretched hand.  He stops just as he’s about to climb out the window and turns around.  “You’re really gonna wear that?”  The teen suddenly feels just a little flash of self-doubt but nods.  He gets an eye roll for his efforts and hears, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”  And then he’s gone.

Sticking his head out of the open window, Stiles calls as loud as he can (which really isn’t all that loud and is mostly just really painful), “You _didn’t_ warn me, though!”

He doesn’t get a response, but he actually doesn’t expect one.  Grumbling (but still totally elated because he won and the jacket doesn’t really matter—it’s actually kind of awkward considering Derek is _not_ his jock boyfriend and Stiles is _not_ a cheerleader and this is _not_ a letter jacket but that’s what all this feels like—he’s cognizant enough to know that he only kept it to see how much Derek would let him get away with) and stumbling, he makes his way downstairs where… his dad’s waiting for him.  “Keys.”

“But—Dad—school!” he sputters.

“Yeah, I’m taking you, give me your keys,” the man commands.  Sighing, he drops the keys in his father’s hand and stomps outside to the cruiser.  They drive for a few moments before the other starts, “You know I love you no matter what, right?”

“Um, yeah?” Stiles manages, confused.

“And that you can come to me about anything?”  The teen just stares at him.  He doesn’t like where this conversation is going.  Unperturbed—or very perturbed, his father looks like he’d rather crash into a tree than be talking about this—the sheriff continues, “That being said, I think that Derek Hale is much too old for you and the two of you should probably—”

“No, _no_ , Dad, let me just—let me just stop you right there because _Derek Hale_ and I are nothing— _nothing—_ except that he was  kind of secretly taking care of me when I was sick—there?—isn’t that better than—thinking he was having sex with your—underage son I mean—god, Dad, you think—I could—bag a guy—like—”

_“Stiles_ , inhaler!”

Stiles fumbles in his pockets, shakes it, brings it to his lips, inhale.  _“Christ_ , Dad—” he gasps, shaking.  Then he laughs and he sounds broken to his own ears.  “Just—no, okay?  He is—like—so attractive—but I’m me—so you can—see where that—wouldn’t work.”  For the rest of the ride, he focuses on catching his breath.  When his dad reaches the school, they sit in silence for a moment.  Then the teen grins as widely as he can and teases, “Thanks for thinking I could bag a guy like—Derek, though.”

He probably deserves the _whack_ to the back of his head.

\---

Derek’s phone buzzes and, grumbling, he drags himself up to check it.  The text reads, _Come pick me up, Scotts a bad friend._   He definitely _does not_ smile or laugh.  He responds with something to the effect of a, “What’s in it for me?”  It’s not like he’s actually going to wait for a response (and he tries to be sickened by his own lack of hesitance—when did he go from wanting this kid dead to jumping to give him a ride home).  He grabs his keys—makes an abortive movement to grab his jacket before remembering—and bounds out to his car.  Absently, he drums his fingers on the steering wheel to a beat he hardly hears on the radio and pulls up to the school.  He looks around for Stiles before texting him to ask where the hell he is, annoyance overridden by worry.  The first thing he sees is a flash of pale blonde hair and he gets out of the car.

“Derek, what is this?  Is there something we need to know?” demands Erica.  She sounds like she’s trying to be brave but her rapid heartbeat gives her away.  Isaac, who’s on the other side of Stiles, is mostly just staring at her.  Boyd’s further back.  He mostly just looks like he thinks they’re all idiots.  (Boyd’s usually right but Derek isn’t about to tell him so.)

“Is this what you not-warned me about?” Stiles grumbles, voice raspy and rough.  He looks mostly inconvenienced but he sounds scared.  “Because your warning skills really need—work if you think you prepared me for—this.”

“You three,” Derek says to his betas, “Go.”

Erica balks.  “Is he it?” she spits, pushing Stiles forward.  (The kid, in his flailing sort of way, catches himself and straightens before he reaches the Alpha.)  “You didn’t have someone in mind for _me,_ you had someone in mind for _you._ ”  She scoffs at that.  “Are you gonna turn him, Derek?”

Snarling, Derek steps forward.  “Go, now.”

Isaac, wide-eyed and quaking, grabs her sleeve and drags her back.  Derek grabs the back of Stiles’ collar and steers him towards the Camaro.  The teen stumbles and stammers protests but for the most part allows himself to be manhandled.  “So,” he hedges.  “What was that?”

“Insubordination, mostly,” the Alpha grunts, dropping himself into the driver’s seat.

“They spent most of the day sniffing me,” the kid informs him pointedly.  (He hears, _“And that is freaking weird,”_ not so subtly folded into his tone.)  “And Scott wouldn’t even talk—to me, said I stunk.”  He coughs dryly into his fist.

\---

“Come inside.”

Derek gives him this long, hard look, and for a moment he feels like maybe he’s overstepped his bounds.  “Why?”

Stiles hadn’t actually given it too much thought.  “Because I have the second Jurassic Park movie.”  He gulps and leans on the console.  “And, yanno, I’m not completely better.  I might need your help,” he tosses out off-handedly.

He’s surprised by the chuckle he hears.  Flushing, he looks over at Derek, who is suddenly _way_ in his bubble.  “You’re an idiot,” he breathes.  Stiles’ stupid breath hitches and he’s about to say something because it’s tense and he doesn’t do tense but then the werewolf presses a kiss to his lips and all he can do is gasp and—

Cough right into his mouth.

“Oh my God,” he whimpers, flopping back into his seat.  He covers his face but chances a look over.  Derek’s face is blank as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.  “Oh my _God_ ,” he groans again, pushing out of the car.  “I’m just gonna… go be alone for the rest of my life,” he murmurs.  The hint here is that Derek should go away forever and forget Stiles ever existed.  That would be the kindest thing.  Because then Stiles could pretend that Derek had only ever been a fever-induced hallucination.

But apparently his subliminal message isn’t picked up because the werewolf follows him into the house.  And pushes him onto the couch.  And goes to the kitchen.  Excuse him, what does he think he is doing?  Stiles would love nothing more than to holler after him but he’s still treading water in a pool of his own mortification and confusion (and lingering fatigue).  There’s a lot of cabinet-slamming and not-so-quiet cursing.  When Derek comes back, he’s holding a plate.  “Why is there no junk food in your house?” he demands.  His tone suggests he’s judging the whole of the Stilinski clan, ancestors and all, for this transgression.

In response, Stiles mostly just opens and closes his mouth.  Derek settles next to him and offers the plate which holds baby carrots and ranch dressing.  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he cries shrilly.

“You invited me in to watch The Lost World,” the other responds patiently, as if _Stiles_ were the one acting out of character.  “D’you want me to put it in?”

“I… yeah, okay,” Stiles responds faintly.

\---

Derek doesn’t blame Stiles too much for falling asleep before the movie’s over, with his head resting over the werewolf’s heart, his body a warm, welcome weight all along his side.  At some point, he’d put his arm around the kid’s shoulders.  It’s comfortable, surprisingly comfortable, reclining like that. He could almost fall asleep.

The thought of waking up to a gun in his face, though, drives him upright.  He sets Stiles’ head on a pillow, soothes the lines on his forehead with his thumbs.  He presses his lips there fleetingly before going.  (Again, without is jacket.  He’ll get it back another time.) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I--I'm sorry.  
> That's all I can say.  
> Forgive me, please forgive me.
> 
> Also, yeah, I don't know.

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes during this fic I was like, "Well, I mean, Derek... you're like... emotionally stunted and... like, I get that... but you should probably stop being so MEAN to Stiles..."


End file.
